


Mirage

by ashestodusters



Series: Mark of a Time Traveller [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Original Character(s), Regeneration, Time War, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashestodusters/pseuds/ashestodusters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think it was one of your Terran writers that came up with the phrase 'the eyes are the window to the soul' colours change, but the eyes do not."<br/>One man has been haunting her life. But she can't help but feel a connection with him, she just hopes that one day, he will stay around long enough for her to ask.<br/>Contains a mix of doctors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> Mirage.  
> [From the French 'mirer', to look at, and the Latin 'mirare', to wonder at.]

Somebody is watching her.

It is an unnerving sensation, the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in discomfort. She debates whether or not to turn around. 

Eyes, piercing and round with emotions she cannot place stare at her. The man looks old and frail. She wonders if this information makes her situation better or worse. She breaks eye contact first and later forgets the entire incident.

*

Twice, she will one day understand, she saw the man again. Once, he looks younger, his hair is dark, bow tie neat. The other time, frills and curls leave a lasting impression from the glance she got of him. 

At the time she doesn’t realise that it is the same man.

*

She meets her husband at a lecture. He is the lecturer and she sits in because the subject interests her. They talk long into the night and then they keep meeting and talking. At some point it develops into something more. Their relationship is far from smooth but it is that most fulfilling she has ever been in.

One evening, in a restaurant, he explains that concept of regeneration to her.

“Then how do you tell who is who?”

“I think it was one of your Terran writers that came up with the phrase ‘the eyes are the window to the soul’ colours change, but the eyes do not.”

Most people wouldn’t but she understands, his gaze still looks the same in the pictures she’s seen after all.

At the street corner, visible under the light a man is watching her. A floppy hat mostly hides his face, and a long multi-coloured scarf trails on the ground. From such a distance, it is hard, but to the best of her ability she memorises his eyes.

They look sad.

*

Outside the church on her wedding day she spots a man in cricket uniform in the graveyard. It is bright sunlight, she checks.

His eyes are both different and the same and still so sad.

Empathy rises up, which confuses her because he is technically fitting the definition of a stalker. A friend asks her a question. By the time she turns back he is gone.

*

Were it not for the bright multicolour jacket she might have missed him the next time. As it is, she only catches a quick glimpse before his coat tails disappear around the corner.

Only seconds after he vanishes another appears. He looks confused which means he probably hadn’t intended to end up where he is. He catches sight of her and freezes, his face tightening and then softening. Much to her surprise his eyes fly over her face cataloguing her image. Then he politely tips his hat at her offering a gentle smile and briskly walks away.

*

She is pregnant and it is a minor miracle. Her husband says that a child has not been conceived naturally on this planet in an incredibly long time. With one hand he strokes her red hair, the other, the red grass.

On top of the hill opposite a man in Victorian dress, dashing looks and long curly hair watches. With her husband still dazed from the news she grants the man a small nod, one glimpse in his eyes all she needs to recognise him. By now, she knows his gaze by heart. He nods in reply and leaves them in peace.

*

Earth’s gravity takes a moment to get used to. Her husband is anxious, things have been hitting off back home (when did she start thinking of that planet as home?) and he doesn’t want to risk either of them getting hurt.

The man is there in the docking port, he wears dark clothes and leather. He seems damaged now, far more so than before, it is visible in his entire bearing. Looking into his eyes almost physically hurts, the stormy depths whirl with grief and anger.

She smiles at him because it feels right.

The effect is that the weight on his shoulders seems to become a little less so.

*

Soon, they will have a son and he will be perfectly healthy. They are still considering names and which languages he should be brought up speaking when they enter the market.

Instinct makes her look up and see him. He looks a lot better now, as though something in him has been fixed. His spiked brown hair bounces with life, his eyes sparkle yet the hurt remains, lessened, but still present. He wears converse with his suit, it shouldn’t work but it does. She is bolder this time, sends her husband to get a basket and returns to meet the man’s gaze.

He falters slightly, vulnerability seeping through. He has been hurt, repeatedly, people have left him, she can read it in his eyes.

For the first time she approaches him, it has been a long time since she considered him a threat. But much to her surprise he backs away and runs, coat whipping around the corner.

Her husband reappears with the basket and for the time being the mystery man is forgotten.

*

Her son is small, fragile and precious. He is also not happy about being born into a cold room but there’s nothing she can do about that. Instead, she cradles his tiny head, soft dark hair already a tangle just like his fathers, and holds him close, memorising his eyes so like her own and then losing herself in her thoughts as realisation hits home.

People stop and admire the child, the mother, however, is focused on something else instead. The man is there, stood across the busy waiting area. His hair flops over his face, brown and straight, a bow tie and braces create a unique look that shouldn’t suit him but really does. He is holding hands with an attractive woman with untameable golden curls. The man is nervous, jittery, the woman physically holding him in place. She realises that this is first time he has not come alone. 

The baby is placed in his adoring aunts arms. She stands slowly and approaches the pair, her baby will still be there later, he doesn’t need her for now. The man gets visibly more nervous the closer she gets, tries to pull away but the woman holds him firm. He ducks his head as she reaches them, hair obscuring his gaze.

“Hello.” She keeps her voice quiet and calm. It is the first time she has spoken to him; he shakes as her voice washes over him, barely keeping his emotions in check. The woman remains silent, but releases his hand. He doesn’t run.

“Hello.” His voice is shaky but he has spoken. Emboldened by this the woman speaks when he offers nothing more.

“I’m River Song; this is my husband, the Doctor.” The man flinches when she speaks his name, as though he expects a paradox to collapse on his head yet nothing happens.

Her next actions surprise them both; in one smooth movement one of her hands comes to cradle the back of his head, the other brushes across his cheek. His breath catches. He is trembling. Slowly, her hands guide him to rest against her, his head buried in her shoulder. No words are needed.

The trembling shifts into shaky jerks, water seeps into her shirt.

Everything is different now. She knows who he is; she has to protect him, to comfort him. It is her duty. He pulls away when he has no sorrow left to shed. Her hand comes to rest against his chin, forced him to lift his head, his irises glisten as their gazes lock.

In the middle of the busy waiting room she, smiling, looks into her sons eyes and the cycle is complete.


End file.
